Iván Mándy

The Crossing

Short story

The sea opened before him. Gave way. The waves rose high. For a moment it seemed as though they would break over his head. But then they fell back silently, parted. Made way for him.

Onwards he walked, with that unearthly smile, a bottle in his hand. Matted, reddish beard, a faded raincoat buttoned up to the chin. Neither jacket nor shirt under the coat. Even the trousers seemed to hang irresolutely somehow. But this did not bother him. He held the bottle high. Not flaunting it, no, nothing of the sort! The label had long since rubbed off. Just as everything had rubbed off him. On and on he walked, not the least bit hurried. Taking his time rather. There was no need to fear the waves any longer. The sea could be depended upon absolutely. But it wouldn't do to hurry on such a journey. Someone had given an order to the sea. Had commanded it to be still. A lord. The lord of the seas. Had honoured him with his friendship. But a friendship like that must not be presumed on.

He sensed that he was being followed. Tracked. They had massed up behind him. Were dogging his footsteps. Sniggering. Whispering. He did not turn round. Did not look back. Did not want to see them. He had nothing to do with them. Parasites. Predators. The lord had made way for him. Only for him.

He held the bottle up to his eyes, turning it. There's got to be a couple of swallows left in it. Just a few swallows. And if they're counting on his giving them a taste... No fear! If there's anyone he'll offer a sip to, it won't be anyone other than...

He raised the bottle high. Held it there. Any minute now and a hand will beckon to him from up there. Thanks, old chap!

The sky darkened. You couldn't really call it angry, but still...

He hid the bottle under his coat. Hugged it tight. Blinked contritely. I didn't mean to offend you. You mustn't think I did.

On he went, head hanging. Just my luck. I've made him angry, exasperated him.

No, the lord was not angry. His brow had darkened for a moment, perhaps. But he had not lashed the sea into fury. Keep going, old man! Continue on your way.

And he continued on his way.

Like the others. No doubt about it, they too had stopped short for a moment. Had been startled, taken unawares. But when they'd seen there was nothing to fear...

They're coming after me. What do they want? To reach the shore? What shore? That's the question, what shore?

Slender saplings in the wet sand. As though they had just risen up out of the deep. The depths of the sea. The sea had withdrawn. Left them to themselves.

The old man stood before them. Hugging the bottle. His only friend. The only friend he could still count on. He blinked distrustfully. Benches behind the trees. Must reach one of them. Sit, lie down. Easier said than done. He felt giddy. Perhaps from the air. The harsh, relentless sunlight. He staggered as he started off towards one of the benches. He caught hold of a sapling with his free hand. It almost snapped under his weight. Startled, taken aback.

Slowly he slid down to the ground beside the tree. The bottle between his feet. Alright. Who said he had to reach the bench?

He sat. Gazed about him.

Grey houses. Doorways, windows, balconies. Tiny black dots, thin lines. As the square began to stir. As men and women began to emerge from the houses, the shops.

Well! So they'd already arrived! Arrived and settled in. A clever move. Crafty. They were behind me on the road just a short while ago. Not one had thought to cut ahead of me then. No one had had ideas of the sort. And now look at them. They've got here ahead of me after all!

They stood around him. Men, women, children. A woman in a blue smock from the video rental on the corner leaned over him.

"Good Lord!"

"What's the matter?"

"Look at him. Just look at him! How could they let him go out looking like this! They should be punished..."

"Who should be punished?"

"Why, whoever it was that let him out on the streets!"

"Who said he was let out? Turned out."

"All the more reason, then!"

"Why? Would you have kept him in?"

"The smell!"

"Smell? You call that a smell? Stink's more like it. Stinker!"

"Someone should take that bottle away from him."

"What for?"

The old man over by that tree! He's watching me! How long has he been watching me?

A balcony high up. A woman on a tiny chair. Sunbathing. Suddenly leaning forward. Leaning over the railing.

The old man over by that tree! He's watching me! How long has he been watching me? Blinking his eyes... winking. Yes, yes, positively winking. Any minute now and he's going to wave. Does he know me from somewhere? No, impossible. Or is it?

And in fact the old man did seem to be nodding familiarly. He did not wave. Why should he? He closed his eyes. But only to look up again.

The woman drew back. Pressed back against the wall. Pressed close against the wall of the balcony. He came to see me. He's going to come up. No, he hasn't the strength to move. Can't even stand. Hold it! Any minute now and he'll be springing to his feet.

Then her mind went blank. She faded herself into the wall.

Down below the woman in the blue smock.

"We should phone."

"Who do you have in mind?"

"What do you mean, who? Who do you think? An ambulance! Don't you think we should phone for an ambulance?"

"Weeell..."

A police car glided past the square.

"They could at least have stopped!"

"Why should they?"

"Why? Why? You're always finding fault, aren't you."

"What d'you mean, finding fault? Why do you say that?"

He stood up. Got to his feet slowly. As someone who had grown bored with all their nonsense. Enough of this twaddle! He grabbed the bottle by the neck. Steered himself towards a bench. With his quagmire beard, twitching face, reeling.

"He got there!"

"I could have sworn, you know, that even at the start..."

"Start! What a word to choose!"

He lay on the bench, his eyes open. They bent over him.

"Those eyes! So innocent and clear, like a child's."

"Like a child's! Innocent and clear!"

"A child's gaze!"

"Gaze? He hasn't even got a gaze left!"

"You don't have to talk like that."

Any minute now and the storm would break. But no. They all fell silent, as if someone had rebuked them. And now they just stood, watching the old man on the bench. The bottle beneath the bench. A ball rolling past it.

A boy snatched at the bottle. The hand hanging down limply from the bench clutched the boy's wrist. Its grip so weak it could scarcely be felt, but firm nevertheless, determined. It loosened as soon as the boy let go of the bottle. The boy drew back, rubbing his wrist.

"Did he hit you?"

He shook his head no, no. But he kept rubbing his wrist. And watched the bottle all the while, his eyes hot, antagonistic.

The woman on the balcony watched only the man. He's down there now, lying on the bench. On a bench close by. The closest bench. But then, later, up here. He'll stretch out on the couch. His legs hanging down, or tucked under him. I'll have to put newspapers under him. Why did I have to look down? Why am I forever looking down! If I'd just stayed by the wall, sunbathing... well, never mind. He'll come up anyway.

An ambulance by the square. Two men in white got out. Approached slowly, leisurely.

"Who rang for us?"

"I did." She pointed to the corner. "From the video store."

The ambulance men turned in the direction of the store. Planning maybe to pick a film to take home. Or to sit down and watch one. Why not?

The old man sat up. Reached under the bench for the bottle. Perhaps he should offer the guests a sip after all. But the way those two stopped and stood before him! Unmoving, hands deep in their pockets.

The driver got out too. Stretched in the sun. Began loosening up his cramped limbs.

Up on the balcony, the woman's face brightened. They're taking him away. They'll stick him in the car and take him away!

They came closer to the old man. They'd maybe take hold of him under the arms. One of them was about to lay a hand on his shoulder. The hand began to shake before it came to rest.

The ambulance men exchanged glances. Turned away from the old man. Started to walk back to the car.

The woman in the blue smock rushed to block their way. Practically threw herself before them.

"You can't leave him here!"

"Why not?"

They pushed her aside gently. Then, over their shoulder:

"There's no hospital that'll have him."

"Have him?" (The word frightened her.)

"They won't admit him. Please try to understand, madam! The state he's in..."

And, before the car door swung shut behind them,

"There's no room! Anywhere... no room at all."

The driver stopped stretching. Got in. Started the engine.

The ambulance disappeared.

They were left standing there. In the wake of a vanished vision.

They left him. They didn't take him away. And now...

She drew back from the balcony. Went inside. Walked up and down with her arms crossed. Stopped in front of the couch. Patted the cushion.

His head'll lie here. His perspiring head. When he throws himself down on the couch. But perhaps he won't lie down straight away. Maybe he'll move about in the room first. Look into the mirror. When was the last time he looked in a mirror? Has he ever seen his own face? Maybe this will be the first time he'll come face to face with himself. He'll blink. Prod the pouches under his eyes. Comb his beard with his fingers. His shaggy, matted beard. Sit down at the table. His head falling forwards. Striking against the table. He'll fall asleep. His hat rolling away somewhere. I shall have to pick it up. Where shall I put it? Where can you put such a hat? On the hatstand? Will it be hanging there on the hatstand?

A boy and a girl ran towards the bench. Did they come for the old man? Will they pick him up and take him away with them?

When they reached the bench they separated. Continued running on either side of the bench. Did not even glance at the old man. Did not even see him. Just ran by him, laughing with innocent, childish laughter. Making the tips of their fingers touch lightly in the air.

The old man leaned back. Slipped his hand in his pocket, as though wanting to pull something out. A letter or a note of sorts. Swayed, toppled over. Slumped down full length onto the bench. His hat fell off, rolled away. Lurched, teetered. Stopped, wavering. A tin hat grown stiff, turned upside down.

The woman in the blue smock picked it up. She seemed somehow surprised at her own movement. She just stood there with the hat in her hand. Then slowly, solemnly, almost ceremoniously, began to walk towards the bench. Holding the hat high, like some dreadful relic. That's how she stood above the man.

"Go on, stick it on his head!"

"We should wash his forehead. It's bloody... blood all over."

"Nonsense! It's just a streak, and anyway it's all dried."

And she, as if she'd never be able to rid herself of the hat. "It should still be washed off."

She put the hat on the man's chest. Placed it there.

He isn't there on the bench anymore. They've taken him away, driven off with him. The ambulance came back for him after all. Whatever! If I were to go out on the balcony now and look down...

She went out on the balcony, but she did not look down.

Her gaze slid downwards slowly. Her intimidated gaze. The trees in the square. She examined them practically branch by branch. The house opposite, behind the square. An open window. A pillow, just recently beaten up. A quilt, pounded flat.

The bench!

The bench in the square was suddenly there before her. The crowd gathered around the old man. Why are they rummaging in his pockets? What do they want of him?

Hands fumbling in the filthy raincoat. Just a short while ago they had been afraid to touch him. And now they were practically setting upon him.

"Papers! He's got to have some papers on him!"

"Papers? On him?"

"Identification papers... Name... address..."

"Oh, tell us another! This one has got no address! He hasn't even got a name!"

"Everybody's got a name!"

"What makes you think so?"

She sank down on the end of the bench. "He came up from somewhere to see his daughter. He's looking for his daughter."

"Why his daughter?"

"He's been living at his son's up to now. But his son's had enough of him."

"I can understand that."

"There's got to be an address, a bit of paper..."

"We turned out all his pockets. You saw us do it. And what did we get?..."

The old man sat up. Looked at the woman. The others retreated slowly. The two of them on the bench, like a couple, a rather odd couple.

A sparrow came to settle between them. Turned its head left and right. Watched now the one, now the other. Then flew away. My blessings upon you!

"Please ..." the woman began, "if you could just tell us..."

She faltered.

That bearded head! It seems even larger now. Has grown alarmingly large. And he's steaming... how he steams! And his raincoat is coming apart. And what will waft out from under it!

The man appeared to have sensed something. He bunched his raincoat together with an arch half-smile. He slid his feet off the bench. And now he was sitting properly, decorously even.

"So, if you could just tell us..."

Something's happening. Never mind how or what, but something is happening. And, as if she were reading it in an old novel. Things are coming to a head.

The old man stood up. Rose slowly. Clutched the ends of his coat on both sides. Childishly, clownlike.

The other stood up too. Wanted to scold him. Sit down! Sit back down, please! But she simply could not open her mouth. Like her, the others just looked on as the old man slowly passed round the bench. Leaned over its back. His hand sliding along the back of the bench. His body following through.

The bench was gone.

But he kept his hand in the air. And reached the next bench with his hand still in the same position.

On and on.

From one bench to the other. One bench passed him over to the next.

Beside him, the woman. In case he should fall. But he does not fall. He totters, staggers, grabbing at benches. Or at nothing. But he's not going to fall again. I can leave him to fend for himself. Set him on his way. Well then? What do I want of him?

What does she want of him? How much further are they going to continue walking together? Is she going to take him in? Take him under her wing? She's trailing after him like a deserted wife.

A deserted wife. She does not make a scene. Does not kick up a fuss. Does not say a word. Just cannot part company with him.

Someone called after her:

"Gizike!"

She stopped. Did not turn round even then. Stared after that slowly retreating back.

He'll come back. He's going away now, but he'll come back. In a couple of days. Or perhaps even tomorrow. He'll be sitting there on that bench again. Sitting, lying down, sprawling. He'll blink towards the balcony with that arch look of his. Scramble to his feet. Begin to walk, lurching, tumble through the doorway, come up the stairs. He'll stumble on the stairs several times, but he'll reach the third floor in the end. He won't ring the bell, probably doesn't know what a bell is for, just fall against the door, or stand there swaying before the glass.

He has left everything behind. They have all fallen behind, vanished. Even the woman who accompanied him for so long. The trees, the benches.

Only the air. The rippling air. That cold shimmering, sometimes translucently bright, at times suddenly fading

For a moment he stopped. Plunged into this shimmering.

A bottle beneath the bench in the square. A blackened bottle without a label. With the dregs of some dark liquid at the bottom.

Translated by Eszter Molnár